


the aftermath is secondary

by blue000jay



Series: battery city [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Emetophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Gore, More Mild Gore, Nightmares, Trauma, Zombies, bc duh, it's okay tho, tags will be updated as other characters appear, they are just kids sad face
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28506525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue000jay/pseuds/blue000jay
Summary: Tommy is twelve, not stupid. He’s played zombie video games before; the ones rated M for mature, the ones rated for teens older than him-- yes, he knows, his mum would be upset if she knew what he’d been playing. But maybe it wasn’t all for the worst, since apparently they’re now living that reality.(Zombie APOC AU, with a focus on Tommy & Tubbo. A side story from my main fic, which can be found in the series! It's not required to read that first, but I recommend it for some bits of context :] )
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Series: battery city [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2067315
Comments: 86
Kudos: 449





	1. what goes up

Tubbo is shaking.

Tommy’s not quite sure what to do.

Look. He’s twelve, not stupid. He’s played zombie video games before; the ones rated M for mature, the ones rated for teens older than him-- yes, he knows, his mum would be upset if she knew what he’d been playing. But maybe it wasn’t all for the worst, since apparently they’re now living that reality.

Upstairs, from the street, he can hear screaming. It makes him want to curl up and put his hands over his ears, pretend he can’t hear it all. Block it out. But he can’t, because Tubbo is shaking and crying and bleeding on his shoulder where some lady with whited-out eyes and the smell of rot on her breath had torn at his shirt and arm.

“Tommy,” he whispers through the tears, voice choked up with snot and phlegm, cracking a little. “Tommy, you need to go.”

“Not leaving you, Big T,” Tommy insists for the hundredth time. They’re twelve. They’re not stupid. Anyone who’s played a round of COD: Zombies or watched World War Z can tell you what a zombie bite means. Tommy forces himself to think it: Tubbo is going to die.

Tommy will follow him there, unquestionably.

“I miss my mom,” Tubbo tells him, head leaning against Tommy’s shoulder and hand gripping his injured shoulder. Tommy had ripped part of his shirt from the bottom to messily wrap around it, but that was the extent of his medical abilities. He thinks about his own mom-- bright eyes, a loud laugh that Tommy had inherited, long pretty hair. 

“Me too,” he says, leaning his own head onto Tubbo’s, shutting his eyes.

Somewhere upstairs, a TV cuts into static.

\----

Tommy wakes up, and at first, he thinks he’s dead.

It would make sense, after all. Tubbo would’ve turned while he was asleep, and then bitten Tommy, who would’ve slept through the bite because he sleeps like the dead anyways. It would be preferable to knowing he was dying, after all. He keeps his eyes shut and breathes, feeling his chest move up and down. Who knew you still needed to breathe after dying? He quietly takes stock of his body-- his toes are cold, his fingers are stiff. His shoulder and right side are warm with the body heat coming from pressure against him. His shoulder is maybe a bit damp, as well. 

Ah. There’s the bite.

Tommy opens his eyes.

The basement is staring back at him. It’s Tubbo’s house, so it’s clean but dark. They hadn’t bothered to hit the lights before bolting down here, locking the door behind them and frantically screaming at each other as the adrenaline weared off. After that, they’d just been quiet in their acceptance. He’d been so exhausted after running to get to Tubbo’s house, dodging weirdos on the street-- no, zombies. Dead people, who had spat and clicked and screamed at him. The warm weight on his shoulder shuffles slightly, and Tommy inhales. He turns his head, fully expecting to see Tubbo, decayed holes in his face, teeth bared, eyes blank--

But all that’s there is Tubbo. Normal Tubbo, with a healthy red to his cheeks and sleep crusting in the corners of his eyes, dried tears tracking down his cheeks. There’s blood smeared on his lax hands, like fingerpaint. Tommy’s shoulder isn’t wet with blood-- it’s spit.

“Ew,” he says before he can stop himself, and then Tubbo’s blinking open his eyes and looking at him. They’re normal. Same as always. Tommy stares and Tubbo stares right back.

“...are we dead?” Tubbo finally asks, cheek smushed up against Tommy’s shoulder still and words distorted. He sounds like a dork. Tommy glances around the dark basement, then back at Tubbo. In the ambient light from the tiny window in the corner, he can sort of see him. Yellow light. Streetlamps.

“Dunno,” he says. Then flinches, as a sharp pain echoes in his leg. “Ow! What the hell?”

“Probably not dead,” Tubbo says, sitting up slightly and pulling his hand back from where he’d pinched Tommy’s bare calf. He winces, grimacing as his shoulder probably twinges. It still looks bloody. “Ow. Definitely not.” 

“I refuse to believe heaven is in your basement,” Tommy snipes back, shuffling forward a little bit and listening. There’s no more screaming from upstairs, and when he creeps towards the door he can’t see any light emitting from the bottom. It’s most likely night out, he reckons.

“Tommy,” Tubbo says from behind him. Then again when Tommy ignores him: “Tommy!”

“What?” He hisses, turning back around and slowly shuffling over. “I was just looking.”

“My arm hurts,” Tubbo complains, and they both spare it a glance. The blood has seeped through the fabric of Tommy’s shirt, staining it a dusky red, and even down Tubbo’s shirt a little. “Should we look at it?” He asks, sounding hesitant. Tommy grimaces, then reaches out and slowly undoes the hasty knot he’d tied the day before. 

The wound is nasty. Both boys suck in air when it’s revealed to air-- one out of sympathy, one out of pain.

“Owww,” Tubbo whines, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Gross,” Tommy says, leaning in for a closer look. It’s a human bite mark, teeth clearly visible and some of the skin ripped. He wrinkles his nose, leaning back, and then glancing around the basement. 

“We need to get bandages,” Tubbo says quietly, eyes still shut. “I’m not a monster yet. Maybe I won’t turn into one.” 

“Is there anything down here?” Tommy asks, already moving to get up and look. He rummages through shelves, careful not to knock into anything in the dark. “I know your dad keeps tools down here-- oh, shit, nice.” Something smooth and cool is in his grip, and when he holds it up he can make out its shape. A hammer, which he holds at his side as he rummages more.

“I don’t think so,” Tubbo says, shivering slightly. “Mum keeps the medicine in our bathroom. It’s just dad’s stuff down here.” 

Tommy glances over towards the stairs, and the basement door. Tubbo must think of the same thing at the same time, because he cuts Tommy off before he can even speak. “No!” He whisper-shouts, shuffling forward a bit. “Tommy, there’s gonna be people up there. Dead ones.” 

Tommy does not think of his own mother, who had shoved him out of her bedroom before screaming through the door for him to run to Tubbo’s house. 

“I have to,” he says. “You need the bandaids. We need food. Your mum and Lani and Teagan were out, right? Shopping? Where’d your dad go?” 

“He went to go find them,” Tubbo says, and it’s clear he’s shaking. “He--”

“Okay,” Tommy says, cutting him off before anything else can be said. “So I go up and get the bandages and food, and we wait down here for them to get back. We’ll ride it out.” 

“Tommy!” Something about the way Tubbo says the word-- like he’s about to cry again, on the verge of tears, makes Tommy turn from where he’d been studying the basement stairs. And no surprise, Tubbo looks to be on the verge of crying. He holds a hand out, fingers shivering. “Please don’t leave me,” he begs, and Tommy swallows. 

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, reaching out and tapping Tubbo’s fingers with his own, then heading up the stairs with care not to let any of them creak. 

The hammer in his fingers is cold and heavy, and he grips it tight.

Pressing his ear to the wood of the door, he can’t hear anything of note. Only the sound of Tubbo sniffling underneath him, and the occasional shuffle when he moves. Tommy’s had a lot of practice playing hide and seek, especially in the dark during sleepovers, so he figures this is just that. 

The only problem is, if he gets caught, he’s probably dead.

But now’s not the time to think about that, he rationalizes, gently unlocking the door to the basement and silently turning the handle. It opens slowly, and he takes a step out into the carpeted hallway and lets it close behind him. 

It’s very dark.

The kitchen light is on, at least, at the end of the hallway. It’s yellow glow spills out against the carpet, but Tommy doesn’t go there just yet. Instead, he creeps the other way, farther into the dark. He presses himself against a wall, holds his breath, and peeks around the corner. The front door is wide open, left from where he’d come in before in such a rush, dragging a bleeding and terrified Tubbo behind him. Outside, he can see dark lumps on the ground, and something shuffling across the street, limping and inhuman.

He holds his breath, and steps out into the foyer. 

_ Be brave _ , he thinks, his mum’s voice echoing in his head.  _ It’s just a little fright. No need to let it keep you up at night. _

The front door knob is cool metal under his fingers, and with a gentle nudge, it closes.

Nothing jumps his way from the street, and with shaking hands, he locks and bolts the front door.

It’s something, but he’s still tense. Anything could have come into the house while they were in the basement, asleep. Tommy’s stupid and rash and impulsive, but right now Tubbo is hurt and he is also selfless and he knows he needs to keep himself alive if Tubbo is going to live.

He heads up the stairs, instinctively avoiding the creaky ones. Hammer ready to strike at any moment, he pretends it’s a video game.

Avoid the creaking floorboards. Press against the wall. Keep an eye out. Teagan’s door is closed, but Lani’s is open and so is Tubbo’s. They share a bathroom, the one with the bandaids. Down the hall, the door to Tubbo’s parent’s room is also half-open. He keeps his eyes open as he tips his head into Tubbo’s room.

It seems so normal, he thinks, stepping over the pile of dirty clothes on the floor and scooping up Tubbo’s school backpack. He dumps the papers and pencils and crumbs out onto the bed sheets, shaking it out with the soft clink of zippers and keychains. It’ll have to do, he thinks, heading toward the bathroom with no small amount of determination.

Once in the bathroom, he locks himself in. It’s safer, he thinks, allowing himself to breathe and relax as he digs through the cabinet and then under the sink. The medkit has a big red cross on it, and he opens it only for a moment before snapping the plastic closed again and shoving it away into the backpack. From there he inspects the cabinets, tugging anything that looks remotely helpful out and scooping it all into the bag.

“I feel like a drug dealer,” he mutters to no one in particular. “Shady.” The bag rattles a little as he zips it up, slinging it onto his shoulder and then picking up the hammer again from where he had laid it on the counter in order to look for the bandages.

Tommy presses his ear to the door of Tubbo’s room again, quiet, holding his breath. It swells in his chest as he listens, slight discomfort growing as he strains to listen for any movement in the house or room.

He hears nothing, so after a second he unlocks the bathroom door and slips out into Tubbo’s dark room again. He takes a minute to peer out the window, but all he sees is the backyard and house behind them. None of it’s lights are on, and beyond it the town seems to be quiet. It’s… disturbing. Everything is so quiet, he thinks, backing away from the window and then heading downstairs once more.

This time, his destination is the kitchen and it’s yellow light. Fairly certain that they’re alone in the house, Tommy allows himself to move quicker this time down the stairs. Confidence growing, he slips down the carpet-covered hallway and past the basement door again. He checks around the corner, then slips into the kitchen. 

First, the pantry. He kneels in front of the open door, tugging open the backpack and dumping whatever first comes to mind into it. Snack packs, granola bars, small bags of cheese crackers, some cookies. Bread, peanut butter. Next, the fridge. He opens it and scours it for anything useful-- water bottles sit in the bottom rack, so he tugs those out and dumps them into the bag as well. It’s getting full and heavy, so after a moment of consideration he dumps some jam in there as well. 

Behind him, a floorboard creaks.

Tommy freezes.

Slowly, with care, his fingers find the handle of the hammer he’d let sit on the floor while he packed food away into the bag. He’s shaking, and there’s a clicking noise behind him. 

He turns.

“Oh, shit, fucking hell,” he swears, staring at the dog in front of him. Her tail wags, and Tommy lets himself come down off the heart attack. “Betty, what the fuck,” he hisses, towards her, reaching out with one shaking hand. Her nails click against the tile of the kitchen, and she licks his hand gently before turning in a circle, wandering. Tommy moves to shut the fridge and zip up the backpack, glancing once more around the kitchen and then back at his dog. “Where’s Walter?” He asks her, of course not expecting a response. He doesn’t get one, of course, since she’s a fucking dog.

After a moment, he hoists the bag on. “Right,” he says. “I bet you followed me. Who knows what else did. Come on, Bets.” 

She does. Tail tucked between her legs, Betty follows as Tommy creeps back to the basement door and lets himself in, locking the door behind him and ushering her down the stairs.

Tubbo’s still sitting in the corner where he’d left him, shivering slightly, eyes tuned to the stairs. There’s panic as he sees Betty, but it’s quickly replaced by delight when he sees her and laughs a little, quiet. Tommy doesn’t miss the way his eyes jump around, obviously checking to make sure Tommy’s okay. He doesn’t say a word about it, though.

“How’d she get here?” Tubbo asks, a little breathless as Tommy plops down on his knees beside him and starts emptying the bag.

“Dunno,” Tommy says. “I probably left the door open when I ran over. She’s such a scaredy-cat, she prolly followed and hid in the kitchen.” Finally, he reaches the medkit, which had been stuffed into the bottom of the bag by the time he’d gotten to the basement again. He tugs it out, the plastic latch failing and it spilling open just a second later. “Shit!”

“Did you see anything?” Tubbo asks, reaching out with dried-bloody fingers to help him pick up the stuff, moving very gingerly. Tommy risks a glance at his shoulder again-- the bite still seems to be oozing blood, but it doesn’t look like it’s getting Tubbo sick or anything. Maybe it’s a case-by-case basis? 

“No,” he lies, thinking about the dark lumps in the streets that were definitely not alive. He shoves a pair of gloves back into the first aid kit.

“Oh.” Tubbo stares down at the mess they’d shoved back into the plastic, then gently takes out a square of gauze. “I-- I think I need some water.” 

They keep their voices down as they discuss and argue over how to bandage a wound-- Tommy thinks some steps are unnecessary, and Tubbo’s just wasting their supplies. But Tubbo bites back with the fact that everything is going to be fine and he doubts they’re going to be here longer than a few more hours.

“Besides,” he says quietly, as Tommy finishes tying a messy knot out of more fabric he’d ripped off of his shirt sleeve to hold the gauze in place over Tubbo’s shoulder. They’d washed the blood off of him and cleaned it as best they could, but it’s still not the best medical work ever. “My dad’ll come back with my mum. It’s just night now. They’re probably laying low.” 

Tommy’s lied to Tubbo before. He’ll do it again. “Probably,” he says, standing up and shuffling around in boxes until he finds the ones with all the old sheets and blankets in them. He doesn’t hesitate to throw one over Tubbo’s head. They both snigger, settling down against each other just like they had before. Betty joins them in a second, having been following Tommy around for the most part and sniffing at the bloody mess they’d shoved into the garbage can in the corner of the room.

Betty’s there. Tommy’s got a hammer in his lap this time, too, and Tubbo’s not crying about his imminent death, so. It’s marginally better. Plus, blankets. 

“It’s like a sleepover,” Tubbo whispers a few minutes into the silence. Tommy snorts.

“Right,” he says, but despite his usual outpouring of conversation topics, he finds he has nothing to say. His fingers are still shaking against the cool wood handle of the hammer, and he doesn’t even bother to hide it. Tubbo hums against his shoulder, then quietly rearranges the blanket a little bit. 

“Night, Tommy.” 

“Night, shitass.” 

\----

Tommy doesn’t really sleep. 

Tubbo does. He falls asleep only a little after they exchange goodnights, and from there it’s just Tommy and his thoughts. He watches the stairs and door to the basement, eyes flicking between that to Tubbo and occasionally, the hammer in his hands. Betty is there as well, curled up and leaning against his legs. He’s warm, but it’s almost suffocating. He doesn’t dare move away from them both. The discomfort grounds him, keeps him awake. It’s needed. 

Eventually, though, his eyes do get a bit heavy. He rests them from time to time, dropping off and then waking back up in fits of paranoia and fear. Again and again he can hear his mum’s voice--  _ RUN, TOMMY _ \-- and see the shuffling of the people who were already sick in the street. He’ll jerk awake, jostling Tubbo, shaking Betty, and yet both of them doze on. At some point the sun rises. Tommy doesn’t bother shaking Tubbo awake when it does. He figures Tubbo will wake up on his own and see what Tommy’s been seeing this whole time-- they’re alone. No one is coming back for them, even if they wanted to. They’re stuck in this stupid basement, and they’re alone.

Tommy is twelve and big and strong and he does  _ not _ cry himself to sleep during the early morning hours. 

He does sleep, however. Eventually, his restless dozing manages to drift off into something more substantial, and he sleeps for a bit. It’s not long, though. Never long-- he’s pulled into the waking world by the sound of wrappers crinkling and Tubbo laughing quietly. For a second he’s confused-- Tubbo’s by his side, isn’t he? But then he wakes up more and realizes his side is cold, the blankets are cushioning him gently, and Betty is also gone. 

He shifts, and Tubbo’s laughter quiets a little more. “Hey, Tommy,” he says gently. There’s more crinkling. “Hungry?” 

He’s not, but he accepts the granola bar given to him without question. Tubbo munches on a bag of cheese crackers, staring at Betty and occasionally giving her one as well. 

“I think she likes these,” Tubbo says after one particularly crunchy cracker. Tommy has been busy staring at the stairwell and waiting for the door to crash inwards, for monsters to spill down the steps and tear them limb from limb. He jolts slightly, glancing over and grinning despite not feeling like smiling at all.

“Probably hungry,” he says, and thinks of the dog food in their kitchen at his house. He doesn’t think he can go back.

The day passes in relative silence. Tubbo talks a lot, which isn’t unusual. But Tommy’s shaken, and it shows. He knows it shows, based on how Tubbo babies him a little and insists on feeding him and looking at a scrape he’d gotten the day prior on something or other-- maybe a door, maybe the pavement. He can’t recall from the blur that had been their panic and fear. Most of the day is actually gone, by now. He can still see his mother, though, arms outstretched and panic written clear as day over her face.

_ RUN, TOMMY! _

Tommy lets Tubbo baby him. The day turns into afternoon, then evening. Outside, there are the occasional screaming noises that make both of them flinch, and Tubbo carefully lines up everything Tommy had grabbed and counts it, over and over. It’s annoying, but Tommy bites his tongue and lets him do it. By the time the sun goes down and the basement is dark again, Tubbo’s also lost the spunk that he’d carried with him throughout the day. 

They’re back in the corner again, sitting with blankets tucked up to their chins and Betty at Tubbo’s side. Probably begging for food at first, but now she’s just asleep. Tommy pets her quietly as they lie there, both of them flinching as a car alarm sounds somewhere in the distance, sudden and monotone. 

“They’re not coming back, are they?” Tubbo asks into the dark. Tommy thinks about his mother.

“No,” he says quietly. “I don’t think so.” 

“Oh,” Tubbo says. “Okay.” 

He bursts into tears.

Tubbo’s always been the quiet kind of crier. Lots of tears and snot and gross stuff, but no sobs. Nothing loud. Just the quiet kind of sadness that comes from being a quiet kind of kid, at least around people he didn’t know too well. Tommy can tell just from the shake of his shoulders he’s crying, much less the wet spot steadily growing larger on his shoulder. His shirt is getting really fucking disgusting at this point, but he can’t bring himself to care, really.

He doesn’t cry.

“What are we going to do?” Tubbo asks later, once his tears have somewhat subsided into just drips, not full-blown faucet action. He sounds clogged up, and a little pained. Tommy should’ve had him take another painkiller before they settled in to sleep, he thinks. But it’s too late now-- they’re entrenched in tears and blankets and neither of them want to get up. The despair is too heavy, too crushing.

“I don’t know,” Tommy whispers quietly. “I have no fucking idea.” In reality, he has lots of ideas. Most of them end in terrible death for at least one of them, and others are akin to scenes he’d seen in video games or movies. At least one has this all being a bad dream.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Tubbo points out, voice muffled for various reasons. The most recent being the blanket he’s currently tugged up to his face to use to wipe at his wet cheeks. “We won’t have food after a little bit. Or anyone else. Oh my god what if we’re the last people alive--”

“That’s impossible,” Tommy reasons, running his fingers over Betty’s head. “I mean. There have to be other people. The news spread pretty fast. People have to be hiding, like we are.” 

“So we just wait?” Tubbo doesn’t seem enthralled by the idea, and honestly, neither is Tommy. “But how will we get food and stuff?”

“We can make trips out of the basement,” Tommy says, thinking back to last night and the adrenaline-filled trip that had brought him back here. “Get ‘food and stuff’. It’ll be easy. We just have to sneak. Like hide and seek.” 

“I hate hide and seek,” Tubbo grumbles, and after everything they’d been through in the past two days, Tommy has to agree.

But for now, he shoves on a smile, and slings an arm over Tubbo’s shoulders. He’s careful not to bump the injured area. “Well,” he says, “big man, I think we’ll find this to be an adventure. Exciting. Fun. Daring. It’s better than going to school, right? We could be in maths right now and instead, we’re sitting in your basement and--”

Tommy cuts himself off before he can continue, staring across the room. And? And what? Contemplating the fact that they’re never going to see their families again? Tubbo is silent. 

“Goodnight, Tommy,” he says after a long, tense moment of quiet. His bravado has been seen through like glass.

“Night,” Tommy whispers back, not even trying to hide the fear in his voice.

\----

Tubbo’s shoulder hurts.

It’s not a surprise, really. It had been hurting, ever since he’d thrown himself outside in order to push Tommy out of the way of some sick lady, who had promptly dug her teeth into his shoulder. He can still remember it clear as day-- the smell of death, the glazed-over look in her eyes, her hands scrabbling at his skin and leaving him bleeding as Tommy pulled at his other arm to get him away. He’d been up close and personal, and it had left him with literal scars. Tubbo is not stupid, even if Tommy insists he is. 

He got bitten by a stereotypical zombie, and yet he hasn’t gotten sick yet. 

He’s unsure about the ramifications of this, but for now he’ll just count his blessings. The wound hurts, but it’s healing slowly and scabbing over. The lady’s teeth thankfully hadn’t gone very deep, and she’d been kicked off of him before it could do any real, serious damage. 

He stares at the concrete floor of their basement and counts in his head, slowly.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight granola bars. One, two, fourteen packets of crackers. Half a loaf of bread, and a bag of crisps. 

Tommy’s pacing halfway across the basement, hammer clutched in his hands. Tubbo doesn’t think he’s seen him let it go ever since the first night when he’d picked it up. He hasn’t had to use it yet, which is good, but Tubbo can’t help but think he might have to at some point. 

One, two, three, four--

“We can’t stay here,” Tommy says, and it makes him jump a little. He’s been so jumpy, even more than normal he’s noticed, but he can’t do anything about it other than flinch and jump and occasionally, cry. 

“We can’t go out there,” Tubbo says after his heart’s calmed down a little, fingers resting on the packaging of one of the bars. It crinkles under his touch. Across the room, Betty looks up from where she’s lying on their blankets and eyes the food. Tubbo shakes his finger at her. No human food for dogs. At least, not right now.

“Then what do we do?” Tommy asks, stopping in his tracks and growling in frustration. He tears at his hair a bit. Tubbo sits back on his heels.

“We stay down here,” he says, because it makes sense. “We stay and we wait.”

“We wait for what, Tubbo? To starve to death? For one of those things to break in? For-- for your parents to come back?” 

The silence there is deafening.

“If you want to leave so bad,” Tubbo snaps, “then go back over and find  _ your _ mom.” 

“Fuck you.” Tommy snaps at him before the sentence is even finished, before Tubbo can even realize what he’s said. But he’s so angry and upset and in so much  _ pain-- _

He spits back. “Fuck you!” 

They fall into silence again as Tommy simmers, as Tubbo sits and stares and counts.

One, two, three, four, five, six--

Tommy’s pacing swings to the left, and then his feet hit the wood of the stairs. In a heartbeat, Tubbo’s stomach drops and he shoots to his feet, following and gripping at the back of his shirt. Tommy’s only made it up a few steps, and they both freeze as he tugs at the fabric and Tommy’s fingers clench on the hammer.

“I’m sorry,” Tubbo says, breathless. The idea of Tommy leaving him paralyzes him. “Please don’t go.” 

Tommy’s quiet, then after a second he turns, ripping the shirt fabric from Tubbo’s fingers and leaving him adrift for a second. Then warm fingers are in his own, and Tommy’s squeezing them punishingly tight.

“We both need clothes,” he says. “I’m just gonna go raid your room. Okay? I’ll be right back.”

“Promise?” Tubbo asks. 

“Promise,” Tommy says, and it doesn’t make his chest feel any lighter. No, he just feels nauseous and worried, even as Tommy cautiously makes his way out of the basement. Tubbo can’t even hear his footsteps above, that’s how quiet he’s being. Which is reassuring, but also scary.

Betty nudges at his side, and Tubbo winces a bit as his shoulder stings. He turns, using his okay arm to pet her gently, sitting on the cool floor beside her as she whines a little.

“It’s okay,” he tells her. “He’ll come back.” Betty’s eyes are glistening, and she looks on the verge of tears. Tubbo feels the same, and gently pets her ears back as she whines gently. 

\----

Tommy comes back with clothes. They change, they sit. They eat. They sleep.

Days pass, and they stay in the basement.

Tubbo convinces Tommy to stay in the dark. They both sleep restlessly, nightmares plagued with screaming zombies and bites and blood. It’s like the video games, but one hundred times worse-- Tubbo’s heart is constantly racing, Tommy’s hands are constantly clenched around the hammer that he has yet to use. Tubbo’s shoulder slowly heals, wounds turning into scabs, sitting in a half-circle on his shoulder. Eventually, he even forgoes bandages in favor of letting them “breathe,” like his mum used to say whenever he or Lani would scrape their knees. 

Tubbo’s been counting the days. On their eleventh in the basement, the granola bars run out.

“We need more food,” Tommy insists, hammer in his lap. Betty is whining in the corner. She’s thin. “I need to go back up.”

“We still have the bread and crisps and peanut butter,” Tubbo says, and they’ve been arguing over this for hours now. “We can wait a little longer.”

“And what?” Tommy snaps, turning to look at him. “Stave off the inevitable? We have to leave at some point, Big T. Even you. We need to go find people, we can’t survive down here on our own.”

“We can,” Tubbo says, knowing his argument is weak. He’s losing, and Tommy can obviously taste blood in the water as he slings Tubbo’s backpack over his shoulders. 

“I’m going to go raid your pantry again,” Tommy says. “We’ll eat that, and then after that, we’ll leave. I’ll do some recoin- recon-- I’ll do some recon while I’m up there.” 

Tubbo stares him down, then wrinkles his face up. Tommy sighs.

“Really?” He asks, and Tubbo’s eyes glisten. “That’s not going to work on me, you shit.”

“Please,” Tubbo says. Tommy rolls his eyes, going over and holding his hand out. Tubbo gladly sets his own fingers in Tommy’s, who gives them a gentle squeeze. 

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, and Tubbo gives in.

Betty follows Tommy up the stairs and out the door, leaving Tubbo alone in the basement. It’s the worst feeling, being down here by himself. With Tommy and Betty, at least the silence can be staved off and pushed into the dark corners of the room. Without them, it encroaches, swirling around and around until Tubbo’s stuck on the bottom of the stairs, a tiny island of sanity in the dark mass of quiet. He strains for any sort of noise-- the creak of a floorboard, the click of Betty’s nails, anything to reassure himself that Tommy is okay and coming back.

Tubbo’s not sure what he would do if Tommy didn’t come back.

He’s so focused on trying to listen, he almost misses how the door handle to the basement turns. He nearly misses when it opens, but then his eyes catch it and he snaps his head to attention.

Something bangs outside, like a car backfiring. Tubbo’s never heard a gunshot before, but he imagines that’s what it would sound like.

In an instant, the door to the basement is flung open and back closed. It’s Tommy, hair ruffled, eyes wild, and no dog in sight.

“Tommy, what was--” He’s hardly able to start to whisper before Tommy’s throwing himself down the stairs, grabbing Tubbo’s arm and pulling him towards the corner. His backpack is also nowhere in sight. He looks frantic, holding a finger to his lips.

“Shh!” He insists, and Tubbo claps a hand over his mouth as they both stumble to a corner of the basement. Tommy snags the flashlight they’d dug out of the boxes days ago and flicks it off, leaving them in the dim ambient light of the room, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate to hide them both behind one of the shelves full of boxes, bodies crammed together and tight with panic. Tubbo can feel his heartbeat in his toes.

Above them, another loud bang. 

“What’s going on?!” Tubbo whispers frantically, breath hot on the palm of his own hand. Tommy shakes his head, eyes glued to the staircase.

The door opens.

Tubbo can’t see the top of the stairs from where he is now, but he can clearly hear footsteps. He presses his hand to his mouth and does not breathe. Beside him, Tommy’s chest is heaving, but he is silent. The hammer is tight in his fist, clearly ready to be used. 

There’s a sneaker on the stairs, then two. Tubbo stares as legs come into view, then a body. They’ve got a backpack on, clearly, and are carrying some sort of weapon. Tubbo can’t see their face, but judging by the haircut he thinks it’s a guy. 

Neither of them move. 

The man turns around in a circle for a bit, and Tubbo can see the moment he sees their garbage. Evidence of their hideout is clear as day around the room. Garbage lies in one corner, their blanket-bed piled in another. Their food stash is also in said corner, and it’s only a moment before the guy is crouching beside it. Tommy’s knuckles are white against the wood of the hammer, and the guy turns.

There’s a moment where Tubbo thinks his eyes will pass right over them, ignore the two terrified kids in the basement, but then they catch. They linger. They recognize. 

“Anything good down there?”

The voice makes them all jump. It’s a woman, and it’s coming from upstairs. Tubbo inhales sharply, a terrified gasp, and Tommy slams his free hand on top of Tubbo’s and practically smothers him under their combined fingers. The guy’s weapon-- an axe by the looks of it-- twists in his hand. 

None of them breathe.

Then the man lets go of the axe with one hand, and raises a finger to his lips. He turns slightly, cupping the same hand to call louder, up towards the stairs. “No!” He shouts, not looking over toward where Tommy and Tubbo sit. “Just some old tools and boxes.”

“Bring up any good tools!” The woman sounds amused, and then there’s a thud from upstairs. Tommy flinches. Tubbo does as well. The guy doesn’t give them a second glance.

“I will!” He calls, and then moves away. He spends a moment over by the worktable in the corner, rummaging through the tools for a second. Tommy hefts the hammer.

“Don’t,” Tubbo whispers, the sound muffled by both of their hands. The guy hardly glances their way, although it’s clear he noticed the noise. Tommy glares. Tubbo meets his gaze, holding steadfast, and slowly shakes his head.

Neither of them move, and eventually, the man turns away. He takes some of the tools from the work table and heads back up the stairs. The clumping of his feet echoes on the floorboards and carpet above them, and Tubbo cranes his neck to listen. There’s more voices, then the sound of a door shutting. Things crashing over. They’re wrecking his house, he realizes, and the hands covering his mouth still get wet from the tears that suddenly spring up. They’re wrecking his house to look for supplies and all he and Tommy can do is sit here and listen. 

Eventually, the noise moves on. The sounds fade, although there’s an occasional bang from a gun somewhere in the distance. Even that fades out, and after sitting for an hour in silence, Tommy finally moves. He unglues his hand from over Tubbo’s face and Tubbo brings his own fingers down, watching as Tommy scuttles over to the stairs and glances up them. He’s out of sight for a moment before coming back, the sound of the door shutting. Tubbo’s out of the corner when he comes back down the stairs, crashing into his chest and refusing to move.

They stand there for a minute. Tubbo’s fingers cramp from holding on so tightly to Tommy’s shirt.

“We have to go,” Tommy says. Tubbo nods, even though he doesn’t want to.

His backpack is gone, but they find a couple older bags in one of the boxes as they tear through the basement. Tubbo for the rest of their food, Tommy for anything useful. They roll up the blankets, they pack the food and first aid kit, and Tommy hands Tubbo a bat left over from when they’d played the game as kids. He holds it out, carefully wrapping his fingers around the handle before leaning it against the wall to grab later, after he’s finished packing.

“Where’s Betty?” Tubbo asks at one point, staring down into the bag before him and glancing up.

“Gone,” Tommy says, face tight, and Tubbo doesn’t press the matter. He doesn’t have to. “She ran off when she heard the first loud noise.” 

“Ah,” Tubbo says, and he zips up the backpack with trembling fingers. “Okay.” 

His shoulder stings when he slings the bag onto it, and then they’re ready.

Climbing the stairs feels like a trek up a mountain. Tubbo’s read about altitude sickness before, and the way it steals the oxygen from your lungs and makes you knees wobble. He diagnoses himself with said disease as they make their way up the steps, feet moving softly over the wood and Tommy going first. 

The door opens to the hallway of his house.

Tubbo can remember when they’d first moved in, when his mum had insisted on painting the hallway a soft green color. It was lovely, when she’d picked it, and they’d spent two days with tarp on the floor and paintbrushes in hand. There was a paint fight, ending with him and Lani getting hosed off in the backyard. The hallway is still that same color, light pouring in from the windows in the kitchen down the way. Behind them, the front door is wide open. He can see the edges of it as he peeks out, Tommy already halfway down the hall towards the kitchen. They’d discussed a hasty plan while packing down in the basement. Tommy was going to raid the pantry one last time, and Tubbo was going to go upstairs and grab clothes and anything else he thought was important. Tommy was already halfway into the kitchen, so Tubbo inhales and grips his bat carefully, moving down to the stairs.

It’s only been two weeks since he’s been in his room, and yet it’s like walking into another person’s house entirely. His posters are still on the walls in his bedroom, his sheets untucked and things strewn across the floor. Someone’s obviously ransacked the place, but it’s practically just as he left it. 

Quietly, Tubbo sits in the middle of his room and cries.

Only for a few minutes. His tears are starting to dry up at this point, and he even feels a little exasperated by himself. Eventually, he scrubs away the tears from his eyes and forces himself to look for anything useful. There’s not much in his room. It’s not worth taking the laptop or his phone, and it’s not worth taking any of his other things, like books. He does take a couple books he thinks might be useful-- a little survival guide his dad had gotten him one summer when they’d gone hiking once, and just another one next to it as his fingers move without him asking to. The bathrooms are his next target-- Tommy had raided the one he shared with Lani, but he decides to check again. The shelves are fairly clear, so he leaves it be. 

The door to Lani’s room is open, and he peeks inside.

It’s mostly untouched. Dirt on the floor indicates that someone’s been here, probably earlier, but nothing has been taken. Her room is as purple and lovely as she left it. Tubbo wanders, eyes drifting sightlessly over a dusty laptop and dirty laundry in the corner, the lampshade knocked slightly askew from an errant throw of stuffed animals in a war that never ended between the two of them.

Gently, Tubbo picks up one of them, a little stuffed monkey that had been gifted to her a few Christmases ago. It wasn’t her favorite, he knows. That honor went to a ragged dog that must be hidden somewhere in the center of her bed, purple spotted bed sheets rumpled like someone had just gotten up and left.

Tubbo clutches the monkey to his chest and refuses to let himself shed any more tears.

Tommy is waiting downstairs.

So he shoves the monkey away into his backpack, beside the books and clothing he’d grabbed from his own room, and leaves Lani’s room as is. He shuts the door behind him and forces himself to move on for the moment. 

The stairs creak as he plods down them, having filled his bag with things from upstairs, and at the bottom is the front door. It’s still slightly open from someone entering, and maybe Tommy before had closed it. But Tubbo takes a moment, holding his breath as he peers outside and into the street.

He doesn’t look long. There are clearly bodies strewn across the pavement, no movement to be seen. Outside reeks, and he slams a hand over his nose before he can realize what he’s doing and chokes on the smell. It’s terrible, and he has to hold back tears from the sheer weight of it as he leans back inside. How didn’t he notice that earlier? The smell certainly had crept inside, no doubt, but outside was ten times worse. Tubbo takes a moment, fingers still clenched over his mouth and nose as his stomach rolls, before shutting the door carefully and creeping to the kitchen.

“Tommy?” He calls, poking his head inside and then leaning against the door. Tommy’s kneeling on the floor by the pantry, tugging at his hair, and Tubbo doesn’t mention how his shoulders flinch at the noise.

“Right here,” Tommy calls, glancing over his shoulder and relaxing a bit when Tubbo comes more into view. It’s like a balm has been soothed over an open wound for both of them-- being apart is stressful. Tubbo hates it, so in this second he decrees that they’ll never split up again if he has anything to say about it.

“Anything useful?” Tubbo asks quietly, moving forward to go by Tommy and kneel at his side. They sit there, the dregs of a pantry once-full at their fingertips, and Tommy pats his backpack.

“A little,” he says, but doesn’t expand on it. Tubbo will just count their things later. Once they’ve left.

Right.

They’re leaving.

Tommy slings his bag over his shoulders, securing it in place, and Tubbo moves to stand up with him. They’re both clinging on to each other’s hands, and the warmth of another palm in his is reassuring to say the least. At least there’s someone alive who he can trust. Maybe more, if they can find someone they know.

“Where are we going to go?” Tubbo asks after a second, because he certainly has no clue. Tommy doesn’t look like he has any idea either, but after a minute he slaps on a smile and gives Tubbo’s hand a squeeze.

“Anywhere we want, Big T,” he tells him, and Tubbo tries to give him a smile back. It feels forced. “I say we head towards city center, yeah? Try and find some other people? Maybe some more food? Maybe we can hotwire a car.”

“Do you know how to hotwire a car?” Tubbo quirks a brow, skeptical. 

Despite his look, Tommy just grins wider. “Nope! Can’t be that hard, right?”

“Surely not. But we don’t know how to drive?” Again, Tubbo is skeptical. Cars are large and made of metal and dangerous. They frighten him a tiny bit, even when the world was relatively normal. Tommy spreads his free arm out and around, pointing at the windows. One of them is cracked.

“Do you see any police around here?” He asks, and Tubbo wrinkles his nose. 

“Well… no.”

Tommy is triumphant. “There we go!” He declares, puffing his chest out a little bit. “We can drive.” Tubbo’s still stuck looking out the window, however, eyes narrowed a little bit. Something about that had stuck with him, and he’s suddenly noticed something that maybe he should’ve thought about sooner.

“It’s weird, isn’t it though? No police? You’d think the army would’ve stepped in by now, right?” He asks, taking a step or two away from Tommy to peer out the window into their back garden. It’s empty, the sky slightly tinted grey, and what he can see of the street beyond it is empty except for… well. Things he doesn’t want to think about, so he won’t. 

“Maybe they have. Maybe we just have to go find them,” Tommy says hesitantly, and Tubbo can see him gnawing on his lip to the side. “We could head to… I don’t know. London? If there’s a safe place, I bet it’s there.” 

Tubbo tips his head to the side, conceding. “It’s a start.”

“Sure is. Let’s go, before it gets any later. We shouldn’t walk around at night, I don’t think,” Tommy points out, and rocks on his toes. Tubbo shakes his head. 

“No, definitely not.” 

They both fall quiet, looking around the ransacked and dusty kitchen. Tubbo feels his chest well up, like it wants to just explode and leave him a hollow, empty shell on the floor. But he refuses to let that happen. Instead, he pushes down the hurt, pushes away the sad, and grips tight to Tommy’s hand. He tucks his bat under his elbow and raises his fingers gently, giving the room a little wave.

“Goodbye, house,” he says quietly. Thankfully, Tommy doesn’t tease him. “I’ll see you again someday.” 

They give themselves one more moment of quiet peace before heading out into the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for peace of mind: betty is not dead. she just ran away :)
> 
> there's only going to be two chapters of this fic, but i can't promise when the other will be uploaded! it'll probably be longer. if you can guess who's going to make an appearance, i'll give u a cookie >:)


	2. must come down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yall, a bit of a warning for this chapter of general gore and vomit! please be wary going forward-- this is a zombie fic after all, and it's going to be a little violent.

Outside is hellish.

Tommy ends up ripping up a shirt from Tubbo’s bag and tying the scraps of fabric over both of their faces, ends knotted on the backs of their heads and mouths and noses covered as they go. There are bodies outside from the poor, unfortunate souls who had gotten bitten more than once-- more than a dozen times, maybe. And in the warm days between the beginning and now, those bodies were decaying.

By the sixth one, Tommy doesn’t really notice the horror anymore. Yes, it’s frightening, and yes, he’ll have nightmares, but his eyes skip over the gore and the terror in the moment is dulled in his stomach. Tubbo is not as lucky-- he throws up the first time they have to walk by a body, and Tommy doesn’t tease him for it. He only just holds back the bile in his own throat. 

Thankfully, there don’t seem to be any of the walking dead around them for the moment.

“Where have they all gone?” Tubbo asks quietly, an hour into their journey. They’re heading for the center of town, which would usually be an hour trip at most by car. Walking is going to take a while. “The zombies?” 

“Dunno,” Tommy says, picking his way through the trashed street. There’s a car on it’s side up ahead, and he heads toward it almost unconsciously. Tubbo trails behind him, glass crunching under his feet. 

“It was a Tuesday,” Tubbo reasons quietly, mostly to himself. Tommy’s not really listening. “So people would’ve been on their way to work and school. Maybe that’s why there aren’t very many zombies around. There weren’t many people in the first place.” 

“Could be.” Tommy’s finally reached the car, which is tilted on its side and has parts strewn across the road. It’s not usable by any means, but he’s going to peek inside anyways. Tubbo’s feet crunch and Tommy comes around the side of the thing--

and there’s someone lunging at him. 

They’re not alive. That’s clear by the holes in their cheeks, the blackened fingertips and unholy screeching noise that comes out of their bloated throat. Tommy scrambles backwards and away, Tubbo shouting in a panic behind as he scrambles for a moment. The person-- woman?-- the monster lunges and for a second, Tommy is frozen.

Then someone swings.

The monster’s head makes a sickening crunching noise when the bat in Tubbo’s hand connects with their skull, and Tommy grimaces as something splatters off of them and onto the ground. The monster is dazed-- not dead. But it’s enough of a distraction for Tubbo to hold a hand out and for Tommy to grab it and haul himself off the ground from where he’d fallen, and for them to bolt down the street away from the car and the monster. It takes a moment to recover before shrieking again, and somewhere Tommy can hear more shrieking.

“Shit!” He cries, and there’s nowhere really for them to go. A glance behind them shows the monster running after them. Despite being dead, they’re apparently quick motherfuckers. “Shit!!!” 

“Shut up!” Tubbo shouts, and Tommy resists the urge to hit him or trip him and instead growls, then skids and swings Tubbo around ninety degrees.

“House!” Tommy calls out. There are plenty of houses around them-- most of their doors are wide open while some are still closed. Not everything has been looted yet, but it’s well on its way to being so. The house Tommy’s urging Tubbo towards has a wide-open door that they don’t hesitate to barrel through, and Tommy slams it shut behind them. Screw locks-- they need to move. Hands still clasped, Tommy pulls Tubbo through the hallway of this unfamiliar house and then promptly out the back door when he sees one. The garden is enclosed, a fence surrounding the green grass behind it, and Tommy takes a moment to stop. Tubbo is panting, and Tommy is doing the same. His chest feels like it’s on fire.

“Fuck,” Tubbo says between breaths. Tommy can’t find his own to agree. The thing from moments ago is clearly pounding on the front door, screeching it’s dead head off, and Tommy has never been more frightened in his life. 

“What do we do?” Tommy asks, and Tubbo gives him a look that clearly means he wants to call him an idiot. 

“Run,” he says. “We were supposed to keep  _ running-- _ ”

Tommy throws a hand up in the air, then snaps it back down to grip at his hammer when the banging on the front door continues. Something cracks. “Well! I panicked! Sorry for panicking!” 

“You  _ literally _ did the worst-- fuck!! Fuck!” Tubbo shrieks as they both hear crashing, the door splintering inwards as the monster makes it through. They’re pressed all the way to the edge of the fence, and Tommy judges the height for a second and then drops the hammer, interlocking his fingers.

“Up,” he insists, and Tubbo bites his lip and then slips his sneaker into Tommy’s hand. It’s a struggle for a moment as Tommy boosts him and Tubbo uses a weakened arm to haul himself over, but then he’s gone and there’s a thud on the other side of the fence. Tubbo’s hand pokes over the top, and Tommy swoops down, snagging the hammer.

The zombie-thing from before stumbles into the yard. 

“Tommy?” Tubbo’s hand flaps frantically. “Come on!” 

Tommy doesn’t have time to react, or move, or even grab Tubbo’s hand. This had been a stupid plan, and if he dies here, on the other side of the fence, Tubbo will be alone. And Tommy can’t leave him alone, even if it kills the both of them. So he holds tight to the wooden handle that’s become so familiar to his palm in the last week and a half, and swings.

There’s another sickening crunch as bones crumples, as Tommy watches the woman’s dead face shift and smash. He doesn’t hold back-- he just shuts his eyes and pulls his arm away and hits her again over the head, downwards, smashing her into the ground with another repulsive sound, and then she’s still. For the most part at least. Fingers twitch and brain leaks out of eyes and nose and wounds but Tommy doesn’t want to look, can’t look, so he turns and grabs Tubbo’s hand and hauls himself over the fence before he has to keep hitting her.

“Are you okay?” They’re in another back garden, another house looming in front of them, and Tommy’s so pumped full of adrenaline Tubbo’s words don’t really register. They float by on clouds of white tinged with red and green and grey guts. Tommy doesn’t think brains are pink like on tv. They seemed grey, just then. The house above them is stark against the blue of the sky, and Tommy’s fingers are shaking. The hammer is bloody. So are his hands.

Tubbo has given up on talking to him, apparently, because when they move next it’s inside. Tubbo is quiet, leading Tommy by his upper arm carefully and peering around corners, feet quiet against the wooden floors of this house. It’s empty, and Tubbo stations them in an upstairs bedroom and blocks off the door by shoving a desk. It screeches against the floor when he moves it, and both of them wince.

Tommy just sits on the bed. His mouth doesn’t seem to want to move, so he doesn’t force it. It’s too much work.

He’ll only talk later, when the sun is setting, and Tubbo’s carefully washed the blood off of Tommy’s hands with water on a spare shirt that’s now a rag. The hammer is gently pried from his fingers, still curled around it and aching, and bruised.

“I can’t believe I did that,” he says into the dim light of the bedroom. Outside, the street lights are flipping on. They provide a strange ambiance to the room, yellow light pouring through the windows and making Tubbo’s dark hair look orange. Tommy’s must look gold. They’re both lying in some stranger’s queen-sized bed, shoes on and not under any blankets. Neither of them ate that night.

“You had to,” Tubbo says quietly, and there’s the shuffle of sheets as he rolls over to face Tommy. “She was already…” 

“I know,” Tommy says, and it sounds too loud so he lowers his voice when he speaks next. “I didn’t want to.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tubbo whispers after a moment of silence. For one of the first times in his life, Tommy finds there’s nothing else that can really be said, so after a moment, he rolls over and shuts his eyes.

\----

They’ve decided on city center, so that’s where they head. In hindsight, when they’re older and know better, they’ll whack each other on the heads and blame the other for the decision. But the truth is, it’s a mutual one borne out of hope and the need to find other people. It’s a foolish decision made by foolish kids, but it’s the best one they could have possibly made in the moment. 

Their trek is quiet. Uncharacteristically so. Usually, Tommy would fill the silence between them with jokes and banter and bad impressions, or talk about everything and anything. That was the thing about their friendship-- Tommy and Tubbo could talk for hours about anything at all. Or, they could sit in comfortable silence, content to do their own separate things. This silence is the antithesis of any silence they’ve ever had before. It’s uncomfortable. It’s awkward. They’re both frightened beyond words and neither want to admit it. 

They avoid the streets, instead traveling through backyards. It’s easier than dealing with whatever’s out there, and instead, they cross through gardens and playscapes and dirt patches and climb fences. Tommy gets used to the feeling of Tubbo’s sneaker in his hands, and Tubbo gets used to pulling Tommy over them with his good shoulder. Neither of them complain about their aches and pains-- they just go. Occasionally, they enter houses and creep around corners to peer at street signs, trying to get a grasp on how far they are from the city center.

Eventually, backyards stop becoming as frequent. Eventually, there starts to be more and more of the walking dead, shuffling along the streets.

“What do we do?” Tubbo asks, watching from an upstairs window of a house they’d taken shelter in for the second night. Tommy’s legs hurt from how much they’d walked. After a second, he pushes himself up and joins Tubbo at the window, peering down.

A few shuffling shapes fill the street, the setting sun leaving the place filled with shadows. Tommy counts seven of them.

“I have no idea,” he admits, resting his chin on his arms. They sit there for a while at the window, just… watching.

“I wonder what’s making them sick,” Tubbo says softly, and Tommy moves to crack open the window a bit so they can get a better look as the sun sets further. It’s almost completely dark now, but the streetlights have kicked on. The power grid has yet to fail. 

“Something sciencey,” Tommy says, and a moan echoes through their heads as one of the zombies shuffles closer to the house they’re in. “I bet you’d like it, whatever it is. The explanation.” 

“If it was in a movie, I would.” Tubbo’s eyes glint gold in the orange light from the streetlamps. “At least those make sense. This is much more confusing.” 

Tommy scratches an itch on his face, and then yawns slightly. His legs hurt still, and sitting here at the window isn’t helping. “Maybe we’re in a movie,” he suggests. “We just don’t know it yet.”

“What?” Tubbo turns to look at him, and he’s grinning a bit. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure it does.” Tommy taps his face. “They’re all actors down there. And stuff. None of this is real, of course. It’s just… an experiment.”

“It’s a mean experiment if it is one,” Tubbo says. “Are we the main characters?”

“I think so,” Tommy reasons. “I mean. Look at us. Don’t we seem like main character types?” He holds up an arm, strongman posing, and Tubbo bursts into snickering laughter.

“Your arms look like sticks!” He says, muffling his laughter into his arm as Tommy splutters in rage and embarrassment. His arms don’t look like sticks, he’s just…. He’s just thin! His mom said he would grow into it! “That was so lame!”

“You’re lame!” Tommy throws back at him, and then drawn by Tubbo’s laughter, giggles despite himself. It’s contagious, and now, they’re both laughing. Tommy still doesn’t feel great, but this is… well, it’s better than the relative silence they had walked through today.

They both settle down after a minute or two, and Tubbo’s back to looking out the window. Tommy follows his gaze, and there’s a moment of quiet.

“To be honest,” Tubbo says. “I don’t think we’re in a movie.”

“No,” Tommy admits. “Me neither.”

“But if we were in a movie, what would we do?” Tubbo asks. Tommy’s face screws up as he thinks, turning to look at him.

“What?” He asks. 

Tubbo shifts, gesturing outside lightly. “In a movie. What would we do? We can’t leave the house right now. I only have a bat and you have a hammer, but if they swarm us, I don’t think we can fight them. If they’re not gone by morning, what do we do?” He’s still got his eyes out the window and on the monsters, and it’s.. It’s a good question. Tommy gnaws on his lip.

“Um. Run really really fast?” He suggests. Tubbo tips his head.

“Maybe. That’d be really dangerous, though,” he says. Tommy huffs, sitting there for a moment longer. Everything they do is going to be fucking dangerous at this point. They’re not in a movie. This is real life. It makes his stomach sick to think about, so after a minute, he moves to get up and move away from the window and the stench of death.

“Well, I’m going to sleep on it. I’m fucking tired. My legs hurt. You can do the thinking thing, I’m going to do the sleeping thing,” he says, shuffling over to their blankets and pillows, scattered across the floor.

Tubbo snorts. “Yeah, okay. Night, Tommy.”

Tommy hesitates, pausing before grabbing a blanket and creating a makeshift spot to sleep. “You sleep too. Okay?”

“Mhm.” Tubbo’s dismissive, but Tommy doesn’t bother to argue right now. He just lays his head down, keeping Tubbo in his sight as he does.

“....night,” he says quietly. Hours later-- he can’t really tell, as he dozes in and out of consciousness-- someone ends up crawling up next to him. 

Morning comes with bright light through windows. For a second, Tommy’s back in his bedroom at home, the smell of breakfast and eggs floating through their house and waking him up. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and he stumbles down the stairs still in his pajamas as his mum smiles and ruffles his hair.

_ “Lazy Sunday, huh?” _ She asks. She has no jaw. Tommy’s not sure how she’s talking without a jaw. Her tongue hangs out, lazy and droopy, and when he looks down in horror the eggs in the pan are grey and scrambled.

He wakes up for real this time with a jolt, fists clutching as the sheets and the ghostly smell of eggs fading from his nose. Tommy doesn’t think he’ll be eating anything today, his stomach roiling as he fights back the bile rising in his throat.

_ You’re okay _ , he thinks to himself, staring at the mop of brown hair beside him. Slowly, he matches his breath to Tubbo’s, slow and steady.  _ You’re alive. _

For now.

He lays there for a little bit, letting himself calm down off the panic of his dream, and just breathes. Beside him, Tubbo appears to still be asleep, arm strewn over and invading Tommy’s space. He doesn’t move it. He just lies there, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face and listening carefully for anything around them or anything that might be coming up the stairs. Or anyone. 

It’s quiet, though. The neighborhood is too quiet. It unsettles him. It makes him uncomfortable. Usually, this close to the town center, there’d be the noise of people going about their lives and doing things. But instead, it’s just an eerie, terrible silence.

It doesn’t help that they’re squatting in some presumed dead person’s house.

Eventually, Tubbo rolls over, eyes blinking open and sleep crusting the corners. Tommy will blink back at him. Quietly, they’ll get up, they’ll shove their feet into their shoes and pack their things, stuffing backpacks full and snacking quietly on granola bars and peanut butter sandwiches. Eventually, they’ll creep down the stairs of this unfamiliar house and quietly go through the kitchen.

“This feels invasive,” Tubbo says quietly, opening the fridge and then immediately closing it again with disgust. “Ugh. Something’s gone bad.”

“It is invasive,” Tommy points out, rummaging through a shelf and then clambering off the counter to go check another. “This isn’t our house. We’re stealing.”

“It’s necessary,” Tubbo says, voice light. “Right?”

“It is,” Tommy assures him. This is something he’s pretty sure of-- they need food to survive, and stuff to be able to get through however long they’re going to be alone for. A huge part of zombie video games was scavenging, wasn’t it? Finding the things you needed in other people’s spaces. He turns, shuffling, and swings open a cabinet, then freezes. “Woah. Tubbo. Come look.”

“What?” Tubbo shuts the drawer he’d been looking in, and goes over, eyeing the cabinet Tommy had opened with mild interest. “What about it?”

“It’s alcohol!” Tommy grins, pulling down a bottle with a colorful label, half-empty. “I’ve never had shit like this before!”

“Tommy,” Tubbo says, and he sounds scolding. “We’re not old enough to drink that.” 

Well, duh. Tommy knows this. But Tommy also knows that they haven’t seen any police at all in the past few days. He uncaps the half-empty bottle, gives it a sniff. It smells like alcohol and some sort of fruit, and when he reads the label, it says vodka. “Yeah,” he says, sniffing it again, “but who’s here to stop us?”

“Tommy,” Tubbo says again, reaching out and snagging the bottle from him. “Don’t be dumb! We’d get drunk! Plus, it doesn’t even taste good!” 

“Oh yeah? How do you know?” Tommy snickers, tearing the bottle back. “Had some before?”

“No!” Tubbo says, defensive. Then shrugs. “Well. My dad used to let me sip sometimes, but it wasn’t even good. It’s all... gross. And it hurts to drink.”

“Coward,” Tommy says, and takes a swig from the open bottle.

As he gargles the taste from his mouth, a wet splotch on the floor, Tubbo leans against the counter beside him and rolls his eyes.

“I told you,” he says. Tommy tears his mouth away from the running sink in order to stick his tongue out at him, and flip him off at the same time. He hates when Tubbo’s right. 

Despite the godawful taste, and the fact that neither of them are even remotely interested in any of the liquor, Tommy finds himself packing a bottle into his bag anyways before they go. Who knows, he reasons. It might come in handy at some point.

\----

They head into the backyard first, voices trailing off into silence as they step into the sunshine. It’s a beautiful day, all things considered, but Tommy’s got a knife now on his hip that he stole from the knife block and his hammer in hand. Tubbo’s still wielding that bat. They’re cautious-- very cautious, working their way through backyards again until finally, they run out of backyards.

“Well,” Tommy says, keeping his voice low. Tubbo glances over, then back at the street. “Got any ideas?”

Tubbo does not have any ideas. Tubbo has no clue what they’re doing, what their plan is, what they’re supposed to be heading towards, here. Their idea had been to get to the city center, but the number of zombies they see is only rising as they get closer. 

“Maybe we should turn around,” he says softly, thumping back into the grass of the backyard they’d landed in. “Go somewhere else. Find alive people, like the people who… who were at the house, sometime. There have to be other people.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, and then he’s thumping down beside Tubbo as well from where he’d been scouting the street above the fence. “But will they be nice? Or will they hurt us too?”

“They wouldn’t hurt us,” Tubbo says, anxiety clawing at his stomach. “We-- they’re people too. Why wouldn’t they help us? We’re kids.” 

“Pretty capable for two kids,” Tommy says, glancing down at the hammer in his hand. That hammer, which had made such sickening squelchy noises as it saved Tommy’s life. Tubbo tightens his grip around the wooden handle of the bat he’s carrying, feeling his shoulder twinge a bit. “But. Yeah. I dunno.”

“I think we should try and find other people,” Tubbo insists. “We can’t just… keep wandering around aimlessly.”

“I mean, we could.”

“You’ll die!”

“What? Why just me?? You think I’m not strong enough to--”

“Tommy, I got bit!” Tubbo reaches up with his free hand, tugging down his shirt a bit and tapping at the place on his shoulder that’s still fresh and pink with new skin. “But I didn’t die. I didn’t turn into one of them.”

“Maybe it takes more than one bite,” Tommy says weakly. Tubbo shakes his head.

“Last night,” he says, glancing at the fence and lowering his voice. They’re being too loud. “Last night, I watched the zombies down on the street. Most of them only had one… spot, it looked like. That was more decayed than the rest of them.” 

“So… what does that mean?” Tommy asks. The thing is, though, Tommy is smart, and Tubbo knows this. Tommy is looking at him like he already knows what it means. They both do. For a second, they just stare at each other in silence, and then Tommy blows out a breath of air as it becomes clear Tubbo’s not going to answer him. Tubbo doesn’t want to answer him, doesn’t want to face the facts that are clearly laid out in front of them.

“There’s a Tesco’s down the road,” Tommy says finally, dropping the subject in favor of putting a hand on the fence, wood stained grey from the elements. Tubbo mirrors him, splaying his fingers over the surface of it and glancing upwards to where the sky hits the edge of it. His nail catches on a splinter and he glances back at Tommy, waiting. “We could run down the street, hole ourselves up in there. There’ll be food and stuff in there. Shit we need.”

“And people,” Tubbo says before he can stop himself. “Other people will have the same idea we do. And we won’t be alone anymore.”

“C’mon, Big T, we’re not alone.” Tommy grins, reaching out with his off-hand and rapping his knuckles against Tubbo’s forehead. He smiles despite himself at the gesture.

“Sap,” he teases, then shifts on his knees. “So, we just run?”

“I think it’s our best bet. We outran the other one, right?” Tommy says, and they both shift and peek up above the wood again. There are two zombies in sight, and more than a few abandoned cars and structures in the vicinity. Who knows how many there really are, out there. Down the street, the Tesco is bright white and red and blue, the doors hanging half open and scattered papers lying about. 

One shifts in the wind slightly, and Tubbo watches as the zombies shuffle.

“We could make a distraction,” he suggests, sinking back down to his knees and glancing around. They’re in someone’s back garden-- it’s not long until he finds what he’s looking for, the bricks lining the gravel path easy to pull out of the loose dirt. He hefts it in his hands, and when he glances up, Tommy’s grinning. 

“Hell fucking yes,” he says, coming over to pull one out for himself. 

“Aim for something on the other end of the street,” Tubbo says, crawling over to the fence again. There’s a car halfway down the road that he’s going to aim for, and Tommy’s at his side in an instant. “Once they’re down there, we run.”

“Sounds good,” Tommy says, and then they’re quiet. He’s waiting, Tubbo realizes, and after a second he stirs himself back to life.

“On three,” Tubbo whispers. “One, two--”

_ Crash _ . Tommy’s gone and thrown his early, of course, and Tubbo pops up and sighs and does the same. Tommy’s gotten a lucky throw-- he’s hit one of the cars in it’s windshield, the glass crashing and breaking even more than it already had been. Tubbo’s brick doesn’t quite make it as spot-on, but the ringing of metal on brick makes it clear that he’s hit something. They watch as the zombies in the street perk up and immediately go for the cars, the opposite direction of the Tesco, and another one appears from behind a car that neither of them had spotted before. They wait a breath, then two, and then.

“Now!” Tommy whisper-shouts, and Tubbo plants his foot in Tommy’s hands and vaults himself over the fence. Tommy’s following him a moment later, straining his shoulder and pulling him over with a thump. They don’t hesitate-- they run. The pavement pounds under his feet as they go and glass crackles and paper rips, but Tubbo doesn’t stop. They dodge a car and behind it is a fallen lamppost, which Tommy jumps over with ease. Tubbo takes it a bit slower, swinging one leg over and then the other.

“C’mon!” Tommy hisses, and behind them, footsteps. They’re off like a shot again, down the street and racing to the shops.

The Tesco door is open and so they both swing in with ease. What is more startling is the zombie inside the store. 

“Shit!” Tommy shouts, which doesn’t help at all, as the dead thing-- woman-- it just turns towards them, drawn clearly by the noise of their entrance. 

_ It’s like a movie _ , Tubbo thinks to himself, hefting the bat in his hands and swinging. He’d done this before, when Tommy had been jumped in the street. The feeling is just as awful as the first time. Behind him, Tommy is shouting and the doors are being pulled shut and Tubbo swings. The  _ crack  _ is clearly audible.  _ Movie _ , he reminds himself, pulling the weapon back and slamming it down again, squeezing his eyes shut as he does so. Even without sight, he doesn’t miss. Another crack comes, and it sounds like a watermelon, like when they’d tugged rubber bands taught around one until it had popped last summer, making a mess of the backyard. He swings one more time, panting with exertion, and this time there’s no sound of movement.

“We’ve got to get in the back,” Tommy says, rushing past him and stoically ignoring the dead person on the floor, blackish-blue fingers splayed and reaching for them. Despite the clear dent in their head, their fingers still scrabble at Tubbo’s ankle. “The doors lock, come on, come on--”

Tubbo goes, following Tommy wordlessly as they rush through the isles and towards the safe back room. Most of the shelves are vandalized already, he notes as they rush through him, but the door to the back room is open. Up front, something smashes through the glass doors. Tommy pulls them both through the doorway and into the small back room and then the door is shutting and they’re alone.

The lock clicks, heavy metal separating them from the things that had been chasing. 

“Shit,” Tommy says, leaning against the door and sinking slowly, breath coming unevenly. 

Tubbo drops his bat, turns, and promptly vomits into the conveniently-upturned bin.

“Shit,” Tommy says again, and then he’s beside Tubbo and gently slipping the backpack off his shoulders and rubbing his back. Tubbo thinks about his mum and her gentle hands on his back whenever he was sick, and immediately retches again.

It’s some time later when they both come to, Tubbo dragging himself out of his sick reverie and Tommy following. They sit against the wall, shoulder-to-shoulder, and pass a water bottle back and forth.

“It’s so much worse than on TV,” Tubbo says softly, and Tommy nods.

“Yeah,” he says, and that’s the end of that conversation.

Outside, they can hear the sounds of shuffling footsteps and groaning noises. Cliche, but true. There’s no window in this small back room. It’s an office, by the looks of it, a safe in the corner and filing cabinets, a desk pushed to one side of the room. There’s no window, and so Tubbo has no idea what time it is when Tommy finally suggests they tug their blankets out of their bags and try to rest. Tubbo lays down and listens as the quiet sounds of shuffling eventually fade away, until all that’s left is the quiet breathing of both him and Tommy lying there. It’s not even dark-- the lights are still on, harsh LEDs shining into his eyes and making the backs of his eyelids pink when he shuts them.

“We’ll stay here,” Tommy says, some unknown amount of time later. “As long as we can.”

Tubbo does not have the strength to argue even if he wanted to. “Okay,” he says.

Sleep does not come easy.

\----

Morning comes with silence and food.

“This is awesome,” Tommy says, once they’ve cracked open the door and found the Tesco relatively empty. There’s a body twitching in the front, yes, and a smashed window where anything could get through, but they find if they’re quiet enough and smart enough, they can get around the shop easily. The fridges are bad-- the food in them has gone out of date at this point, although Tubbo reckons the pickles are probably fine. Some of the drinks are also alright, and they both drink three things of apple juice each before Tubbo mentions the idea of rationing. 

The shelves are ransacked, but not everything is gone. There’s food still, candy enough for each of them to get sick on it, and Tubbo thinks well enough to grab some of the bandages left in the desolate parts of the store.

“Tubbo,” Tommy says at one point, having creeped into the back room with him. Tubbo’s been stockpiling as Tommy’s been bringing shit in, locking the door with every trip. “Look.”

In his hands are fistfuls of cash.

“How did you get that?” Tubbo asks, a hand coming up to cover his mouth as a giggle comes out. “What do we even need it for?” 

“One of the registers was open. It’s cash! Cold hard cash!” Tommy grins, splaying the bills out in his fingers. “Here. I’ll pay you a hundred pounds for a Snickers.” 

“Snickers is worth way more than a hundred pounds,” Tubbo says, reaching out to snap up the candy bar and hold it close to his chest. Tommy eyes him, grinning wildly as he shuffles the money from hand to hand. Tubbo plays along. “Try two hundred.” 

“Hmmm,” Tommy says, tapping his chin and then shuffling the bills in his hands around once again, before throwing them all towards Tubbo in a flurry of money. “Fuck it, it’s worth it. Take the lot!” Tubbo laughs, and they’re both giggling as money floats down around them like snowflakes. A moment of brevity in the middle of everything terrible, and Tubbo appreciates it. They pick up the money a few minutes later, splitting the Snickers down the middle and sharing despite the exchange of cash. It’s useless now, Tubbo knows, but it’s still fun to count over and over in his hands, shuffling fingers over the paper and wondering who had held it last.

They hang out in the office most days, hiding from the outside world. Tommy shoves the desk and cabinets into the corner and they spread their blankets around, stockpiling everything they can possibly bring into the small room. Tubbo counts-- he counts the money, the number of juice boxes, the number of crisp bags they have piled on the desk and in the corner. It’s calming, knowing just how much they have. And they have a lot. Yes, the store had been half-empty when they’d arrived, but they’d managed to scrounge up plenty of helpful things. Now it’s just a waiting game, and Tubbo’s… Tubbo’s not sure what they’re waiting for. He wants people. Tommy refuses to talk about it, so they simply don’t. They just spend their days inside the office room with the door locked, occasionally going out into the store when all is quiet and keeping an eye out for any monsters. They see plenty of them-- shuffling dead, rotting faces and blank eyes. Tubbo had read once about the stages of decay, morbid curiosity one summer when he’d found a dead raccoon on the side of their street. He thinks of those pictures now, as they hide behind shelving and avoid the sight lines of any of the scary creatures.

It’s easier to think of them like video game monsters than anything else, so it’s what they do. They turn the daily scavenger hunt of the store into a game, ducking behind counters and seeing who can make the most reckless move without getting caught. Tommy always wins-- Tubbo’s too cautious to play this game truthfully. It’s fun, however, and their spirits lift no matter how confined they feel. It’s safe here, for the most part. There are a few close calls, as always, but they just hide in their den until the sounds of zombies move away and it’s safe to go out again.

It’s the third day of them building this careful hideout when the lights go out.

It’s sudden. One moment, Tubbo is flipping through a scuffed magazine and the next, he’s staring into a blank empty void. It’s dark-- dark enough that he can’t see his hand when he gently holds it up in front of his face and waves.

“Tubbo?” Tommy had been sitting across the room from him quietly, messing with a magazine of his own before the lights had gone out and occasionally trading quips. Now, though, he just sounds frightened.

“I’m here,” Tubbo says softly. “I think the power grid’s failed.”

“Hah,” Tommy says, and Tubbo can hear his breathing pick up. “That’s-- that’s good. Thought I’d died just then. Or gone blind. Can you imagine if I’d just suddenly gone blind? Maybe it’s a side effect of the disease, you know--”

“Tommy.” Tubbo cuts into the panicked spiel, shuffling the magazine slightly as he moves it to the side. “Tommy, it’s okay. It’s just the dark. Give your eyes a second to adjust.”

Even as he says it, his own eyes are already adjusting ever so slightly. There’s no window to let light into the small room, but there’s a crack under the door that emits the softest of glows as Tubbo feels around and shuffles. He can hear Tommy breathing somewhere across the room, fast and short. 

“I can’t believe the lights went out,” Tommy breathes, voice shaky. Tubbo finally finds what he’s looking for-- a small lantern, one they’d picked up from the floor out there the first day. They’d stuck batteries in it and hoped for the best despite the plastic being broken in front of the bulb and it pays off now, as his fingers find the switch and clumsily flick it on.

The effect is instant, a yellow-y glow filling the room and replacing the stark lights of the LEDs on the ceiling. It’s coming from Tubbo’s hands, the lantern casting shadows on the walls and making him feel like a firefly as the thing briefly blinks. Tubbo hits it once with the palm of his hand and it steadies out. When he glances up, Tommy’s still across the room, back pressed against the wall and eyes as big as dinner plates-- his chest is moving up and down hard, a panicked look on his face. Tubbo sets the lantern down and crawls over, holding a hand out, and Tommy easily slaps his own into his palm.

“It’s okay,” Tubbo says quietly. “It was just the powergrid.”

Around them, the Tesco is silent. The soft sounds of refrigerator humming they’d been living with is gone now, and it’s just them and the sounds of their breathing as they sit there. Tubbo keeps his slow and calm, and over time, Tommy’s comes to match it.

“Fucking hell,” Tommy eventually mutters, fingers warm against Tubbo’s palm. “I seriously thought I had just gone blind for a second there.”

Tubbo laughs, glancing toward the door and outside. It’s been a few hours since they’d come back in after waking up, and it’s probably late afternoon or sunset already. “I wonder if it’s out everywhere,” he says, shifting gently to get up. Tommy’s grip on his hand becomes like iron, so Tubbo simply pulls him up along with him as he moves to the door. They’re both quiet, Tubbo pressing his ear to the metal, but outside is silent. So he unlocks the door and gently cracks it open.

The store is no longer lit up by harsh LEDs and now, instead, there are shadows everywhere. The sun is setting, leaving the whole room cast in colors of gold and orange. 

“I wonder if we can get on the roof,” Tommy says quietly, and Tubbo glances back at him. It’s not a bad idea-- they’d be able to see more from up there. But it’s getting too dark for him to comfortably want to try, so instead he just moves to shut the door once again and lock it carefully.

“Tomorrow,” Tubbo says, glancing up at the ceiling and then back at Tommy. “When it’s light out.”

“Fine by me,” Tommy says, not bothering to argue, and that’s how Tubbo  _ knows  _ he was shaken by the lights going out so suddenly. He smiles, tugging Tommy down to the floor and their blanket nest, picking up the magazine he had dropped in favor of finding the lantern earlier. The lantern that now sits on the desk, lighting the room and letting Tubbo flip to the page he’d left off on earlier.

“Help me read,” he says, keeping his tone light and bossy. “The print’s too small for me.”

“Yeah, alright,” Tommy says, taking one corner of the magazine and half-slipping it into his lap, squinting at the letters. “What the hell is this?”

“National Geographic!” Tubbo chirps, leaning his head forward and pointing. “It’s about anteaters.”

“They’re fucking ugly.”

“I know, right?”

\----

They don’t manage to get on the roof. It’s not a flat surface-- instead, the roof is steep and even if they wanted to try, Tubbo would have no idea where to start. They’re not exactly the most fit, or strong enough to haul each other up there without attracting the attention of wandering monsters. Plus, then they’d be stuck up there without any supplies. So they stick to the inside of the store and the office instead, and Tommy occasionally pops his head out into the street to look for anything new.

It’s all the same, mostly. The power grid is definitely out-- the streetlamps don’t come on at night anymore and the Tesco is silent. The rest of the refrigerated items go bad and Tubbo takes to wearing a fabric around his nose and mouth when they go out, since the smell is pretty awful. They start to acclimate and Tubbo reasons with Tommy on day two to go to sleep when the sun sets and keep the batteries on low usage.

“We don’t know how long they’ll last,” he points out, and Tommy grudgingly has to agree. So they start to rise and sleep with the sun. It’s a good system, really, and Tommy honestly sleeps better than he has since this whole thing started. He feels.. Safe, tucked away in their metal box filled with food and supplies. He feels prepared. Watermelon noises and dead people haunt his dreams, yes, but when he’s awake he feels safe and that is the most important thing.

It’s five days into their stay at Tesco’s when they finally see other people.

“Tommy,” Tubbo hisses one morning, shaking him awake from dreamless sleep. It’s dark in the room but the lantern’s on and casting shadows onto Tubbo’s worried face. “Someone’s outside.”

“Let ‘em go away, then,” Tommy says drowsily, because he’s tired and thinking Tubbo’s talking about someone dead. More often than not the dead shuffle in and out of the store, searching and looking and occasionally scraping or banging on things, moving things around. It’s noise, but it’s noise they’re familiar with.

“No,” Tubbo insists, shaking him again. “It’s someone alive.”

That wakes him right up, and Tommy sits up, narrowly avoiding whacking Tubbo’s forehead with his own. They’re silent, and Tommy listens.

Outside, things shuffle. They both creep to the door and press their ears against it, listening hard.

“I heard someone messing with the shelves,” Tubbo says gently. “And then voices. Just one.” 

“There might be others,” Tommy says, and reaches for the doorknob. Tubbo’s fingers wrap around his wrist before he reaches it, gripping tight.

“Wait!” He says. “Wait, just… get the bat. And hammer.” The  _ just in case _ is left unsaid, but Tommy knows the look when he sees it. He shifts away from the door, to the corner where they kept anything not edible, and snags the bat. It’s heavy wood in his hands, a formidable weapon (just in case) to be used against those meaning harm.

Tubbo’s still got his ear pressed against the door when Tommy crawls back, holding it in his lap as they sit there.

“Hear anything?” Tommy whispers, and Tubbo shakes his head.

Like something straight out of a horror movie, the doorknob rattles and shakes as someone on the other side fights to get in. Both boys jump backwards, fear shooting straight through Tommy’s heart as they scramble away and the door shakes, and shakes, and shakes. The bat is raised, and Tubbo’s behind him as Tommy stares at the door.

“On three,” Tommy whispers, and Tubbo’s hands clench the hammer. They’d traded weapons. Tommy’s alright with that for now. “One, two--”

On three, he reaches out and unlocks the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, babies killed their first zombos. and now they have trauma. look what i did, i took two perfectly fine children and gave them trauma.
> 
> this is getting a little long for my liking, but hey! it's a story. i'll probably put off posting the last chapter of this until a bit later >:) because i'm evil and want the reveal to be in the sequel that i've yet to post. 
> 
> if you enjoy this story, make sure you've read the mother fic, [the little children raise their open filthy palms](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27430390/chapters/67052890)! and if you like my work, feel free to check out my profile and read the other stuff i've got or follow me on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/toobbo_)!
> 
> thanks for the read! comments and kudos appreciated!!!!! <3


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